“No,” I answered. “My family was killed by living, breathing, thinking humans. I’ve had friends turned, and I’ve had to end some of them, but I have never had to worry about family.”
“I am sorry to hear that you lost your family in such a way, but you are also fortunate to know that they are not wandering the city attacking, killing, and infecting people. Those of us in this room have not been so lucky. We have all lost, but Richard and Bertha are especially cursed. Their family refused to leave the area; they kept retuning. At first it was their cousin who was turned, then their sister. One at a time they have watched family members be lost, and usually it’s to the bite of a relative. How do you think that feels? Eh? Watching that happen to the ones you love?”
“It would suck,” I said unsympathetically.
“It would suck,” Sebastian repeated with attitude. “That’s one way to put it. But now, do you understand how our Richard and Bertha might be a little sensitive about you attacking the people who were once their family members?”
“Except that once they turn,” I pointed out, “They’re gone. Sorry guy,” I said, turning to Richard, “but there is nothing in that garage you want to keep, and the sooner you put them down the sooner they are free from the curse that is driving them.”
“I think you should leave,” Richard answered. “I’ve heard enough, and you are not the type we want here. I don’t wish you ill, but I don’t wish you here with us either.”
A little pissed at his perspective, I raised my hands and retorted, “Fine. Whatever. Thanks to your sister for not feeding me to daddy or whatever. Give me something I can use to defend myself and I’ll be gone.” The anger was rising in me at the thought of being turned out for explaining that zombies were dead.
“Where will you go?” Sebastian asked.
“Like it friggin’ matters?” I snapped.
“We have no extra weapons to share,” Richard added.
Sebastian rolled his eyes and handed me a bat. “Here,” he said, not looking at Richard. I thanked him and fought the urge to pummel Richard. “So?” Sebastian pushed. “Where will you go?”
“I have a place, at the mill on First.” I regretted telling them once I sized-up their shelter. It was tiny in comparison to the mill, where they could all fit comfortably. With at least twelve in their group, the shop is a tight space to live in full time.
“Well,” Sebastian continued, “that’s not too far away, and now I’ll know where to find you if I need you.”
“Unless you decide that killing deadheads is your new pastime, then don’t bother.” I gripped the bat and gave the end a shake. Bertha sat in the corner, eyeing me with some unknown intent in her look. “Good bye, Bertha, and thank you again for saving my life.” I meant it, even if my tone implied the opposite. I then turned and walked to the exit. The door was opened for me, and just like that, I was back into the night.
“You know where to find us, if you need us,” Sebastian called from the doorway.
“I won’t”, I promised him. “Tell Richard to forget my face.”
He shook his head, and closed the door on me.
While I made my way home, I did something I had never done before: I looted. I found myself breaking into houses, businesses, offices. Anything with a door and the possibility of anything I might find valuable.
What I quickly learned was that all of the obvious things had already been stolen. Tools. Food. Water. But all of the less obvious stuff was still there, if you were ready to search for it. Things like music, entertainment, and booze.
Remembering Michael’s trick at the university, I broke open every desk and cabinet with a lock. Most of the time it was nothing; personnel files and such. But occasionally…
I found two pistols and several bottles of liquor. I found a first aid kit and someone’s stash of canned food. The idea occurred to me that these people might still be alive and I was stealing the very things helping to keep them that way, but the thought was fleeting. There was no way to know what state anyone was in except for me, and I intended to live. So I stuffed everything I could into some grocery bags I found and headed back home.
I made it back to the mill and found the back door open. I remember leaving it and not caring, since I was going to torch myself anyways. The memory of that night sends shivers up my spine, but at the time I didn’t think it would matter if the place was overrun. Now I was kicking myself.
I set my bags just inside the door and drew my pistols. As the evening air wafted into the main floor, I could hear the rising moans of the dead.
“Welcome home,” I sang, and opened fire.
◊◊◊
Weeks passed without seeing another human, but my life was not without incident.
Of all the tools I had found, of all the treasures I had brought back to the mill, I should have never taken the liquor.
It seemed like an indulgence I could afford. This world was so devoid of pleasure that having a drink seemed like a great way to spoil myself. Well… Turns out I’m terrible at “just having a drink” and am quite talented at “getting totally hammered”. The first night after looting, I got trashed and put on a puppet show with the remains of the zombies I had found in the mill. Their digits were still twitching as I made their arms and legs dance across the room. The next day I woke hung over, and decided to fix that with another drink. So the cycle began. Day after day I would tip the bottle and
